


The Fear Is Love

by spottyflake



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Confession, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, jean/eren at the end, unrequited feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-11
Updated: 2015-04-11
Packaged: 2018-03-19 15:27:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3614940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spottyflake/pseuds/spottyflake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Romance films and books make confessions seem so easy (but in reality, just how high are the stakes?)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fear Is Love

You’re going to tell him today. 

When its down in black and white like that, you know there’s no questions asked, nothing to fear about the unknown because everything is planned out. Except for his reaction. 

You’ve been waiting for such a long time, slowly dreading the arrival of this very day. When you met that fateful rainy morning in the Biology department almost a year ago, you saw without denying it to yourself: he’s fucking hot. But more than that, his brown hair suits him because he’s the most down to earth person you’ve ever met yet he never brings you down, and his whiskey coloured eyes shine with an understanding that only the two of you can relate to. It’s the reason you’re such unlikely but good friends, best friends, you dare say. 

You walk down empty college dorm hallways, each corner of the vicinity a reminder of all the times you’ve walked down here. Countless times. But each time is a little more memorable when you’re walking down with him. The memories of his presence, of his shoulders brushing yours that one time he wore your flannel shirt, those memories are like home and yet they’re not, because the house back in Trost you once thought was home is nothing more than a bed to worsen your insomnia and a dungeon where you listened to the sound of your own scoldings to lure you into a dreamless sleep. 

Nowadays, it’s his chatter you hear all the time and even in your dreams because he never really shuts the fuck up, you’re also in love with his voice, and it’s worth listening to despite they way it rubs you wrong on your bad days, like the automatic voice of your phone company telling you “Press one to top up”. More often than not his voice makes you want to talk even though you were considered Mute in high school, probably a more sympathetic title than Outcast or just plain Loser. 

And when you do talk to him, or to all the friends he’s helped you make, it’s worth it because it makes him smile or frown or grimace and no matter what kind of face he pulls you get a rush of pride because you know he’s reacting to you, so much unlike the cold shoulders and stiff silences you got from everyone else back in Trost. 

Sometimes he doesn’t react to you. Sometimes he’ll initiate a look, lingering on your skin, and it makes you squirm when he tells you with a knowing smirk that maintaining eye contact will improve your social abilities. Sometimes in a rush of hope you think that maybe, despite being as reliant on him for light as the moon is toward the sun, he might be flirting with you. And because he knows exactly how to push your buttons, it might mean something more than friendship. 

And that’s exactly what you want. 

It just so happens that Jean Kirschtein gets what he wants, you tell yourself, trying to boost your confidence before you knock on his door as your hand trembles and the hole in your gut worsens, with the hope that maybe you’ll just blurt it out and get it over with. 

His tired freckled face appears from behind the door, already disappearing into the room because you guys are close enough so that you can let yourself in, and hell if it wasn’t for the dorm rules he’d probably give you the spare key. You’d have given him yours months ago. If you had, maybe then he’d have let you in instead of the two of you waiting outside your own door until your drunken room-mate made it back. But if you had given him a spare key, you wouldn’t have been able to sit with him, high out your mind, talking about stupid shit, about your lives and giggling because someone started laughing and neither of you could stop.

It’s not the birth of a nebula each time you see his face. It’s familiar, like loosening up in your favourite armchair and sinking into the material. The butterflies have long settled down, after you realised what they meant and why they appeared in your stomach in the presence of a particular person.

But it’s still a little breathtaking when you see his stomach from under his t-shirt and khaki pants as he stretches, but even then instead of oxygen you’re filled with warmth at the sound of his yawn and the dark hairs that stick up at the back of his head that mean he’s been sleeping for too long. You’re not one for hugs and bodily contact, but you’d gladly cuddle him all day, even just platonically.

“Hey Bed Head, you ready to hit town?” You grin at him, jabbing at his ticklish sides just because you can. 

He darts away with a “stop it!” and huffs. He’s never been a morning person like you. “Do I look ready? Gimme a second to get changed. I couldn’t be bothered to get up then you went and crashed my door down.” Not many people know it, but he’s actually one of the most laziest people there is. Oh, and the sass. He loves rhetorical questions. 

You plop down on his bed’s edge, looking away toward the desk because for some reason he’s always been shy about changing in front of others. Or maybe it’s because he knows how you feel about him.

You well and truly haven’t been subtle about your crush on Marco Bodt. In fact, you told him you love him before. Many times. A couple of times had left you both wondering if you were joking or not, and you weren’t, but you both brushed it off. Or rather, he’d look at you weirdly after your fuck up, as if in concern mixed with hesitation, and you just hid your face from him and ignored the awkwardness of the situation. 

You’ve said it so many times you’re not even sure he’ll take you seriously this time.  
Later, later, later. 

Not in the cinema when you’re throwing popcorn at each other and gushing over the white blob of a robot on the screen: the mood isn’t right and a confession would seem out of place. 

Do it later. 

Not when you’re in McDonalds and he’s got a milkshake moustache that you won’t tell him about because you want to embarrass him, that’s what friends do: you’re in a public place and you don’t want a table to separate the two of you. 

Tell him later, there’s still time. 

Not when you’re back in his room playing Wii Sports with your friends, with him teaching you how to knock virtual pins down as he guides your arm, breath on your neck, each touch making you want to shudder and lean into him and kiss his face off and at the same time hide and curl up in a ball and drown the feelings out with too many shots of Dry Gin like you did the night you realised how you felt for him. 

Too many people. He’s too close. Wait until everyone is gone. 

Everyone fucks off to Connie’s and the weight of “now or never” sits in your stomach.

It’s a queasy feeling, that’s for sure. 

“Man, I’m so rubbish at the sword fighting game. You make it look so easy!” he tells you, pouting at the screen he sits in front of, waving the controller around in the air, laughing as the character swings a red sword on the screen.

“That’s like the easiest game there is on that thing. Even I can do it and I can’t do any other.”

“You can do the basketball one...”

“That was definitely a fluke.” 

“So were you.”

It’s meant as a joke, on the same scale as one of those “yo mama” jokes or the meaningless yet hilarious response of “your face” to a question. But it sends a twinge into your heart. On his bed, you look over to see him shooting you a smile, the curve of his lips not disappearing when he joins you on his bed.

He nods at you and leans against the wall, closing his eyes. “Yup, I’m pretty lucky to have a friend like you.” 

“Oh yes,” you chuckle and turn to face him, smelling his covers as you press your face into them. “You know you’ve hit the jackpot when you got a grumpy blonde demanding class notes and homework help.” 

“Well. I suppose I’d ask for a friend with a better music taste,” you poke your tongue out at him as he grins, knowing what you’re doing without even needing to see your face. “But yeah, feelsy stuff and all that.”

“My feels were destroyed when Baymax was left behind.” 

He throws his hands up and hides his face in his hands. “Dear Christ, THAT WAS THE WORST!” 

“Worse than the ending of Marley and Me?”

The death glare you get in return only makes your smile wider. “Don’t you dare.”

“’Marleeeeey MARLEEEEEY, NOOOO-’”

“Don’t even finish that sentence-” He reaches out with a determined scowl to cover your mouth and you jostle on the bed, trying to keep your head free of his hand. 

“’JEAN YOU’RE SO CRUEL I’M NEVER EVER TALKING TO YOU AGAAAAAAAIN, WHY’D YOU KILL THE DOG-’” 

His hand finds your lips and you widen your eyes daringly as your voice is muffled. “I will.” you threaten. Your tongue meets his palm slowly as you make your best bedroom eyes. 

This isn’t something new. You’ve been flirting with him to the point where he’ll banter with you in class, blurting out things like “Jean, you’re fit as fuck” and making you (and everyone else in your class) wonder if you’re secretly married but don’t even know it. 

He knows how dirty you can really be: he found your erotica and will forever be amazed at how explicitly you can write a sex scene, using terminology even he doesn’t know despite him being the more sexually experienced one while you’re still a virgin.

He squeals and jumps away, wiping the remainder of your spit on his jeans and shooting you mock-disappointed glares. 

“You knew it would happen.” Your smirk gives way for a cheesy grin as he face-plants into his own pillow.

A sigh emits from his pillow. “When will I learn.”

“I’ll keep brainwashing you with my seductive eyes. You’ll never remember.”

The two of you bicker for a bit longer until he asks if he can get something to eat, a trip you begrudgingly agree to. It’s quiet as you walk. The hallways are just as empty as they were this morning, but this time there’s the noise of Marco inserting money into the vending machine and the low hum of its cooler, florescent lighting shining onto his peaceful face. 

You tear up. Arms crossed over your chest and your throat clamps up, tightly, not wanting any stupid language spilling out that could ruin the friendship between you two.

Because... Friendship could be so easily destroyed with just a few words. Your friend is a person who you’ve explored through and through, leaving you with far too many opportunities to hurt them. All this time you’ve been lying to him. Lying by omission. 

Maybe if you’d told him sooner, it’d be easier to deal with. But you let the feeling fester. 

You let him grow attached to you, to trust you and yet there are times when you look at him and the thoughts behind your eyes aren’t innocent. They’re vicious. Coiling in your stomach as your body screams at you to possess him. To make him yours. To make him want you. To take up all of his thoughts and make sure his eyes never stray too far from you. 

The rules of dating would separate the two of you no matter how close your bodies are, even if his sweat mixes with yours and his lips meet your own.

Your sweet fantasies of waking up next to him on a sunny Sunday morning: evil. It’s your betrayal in return to his offer of companionship and sanctuary and a person to help you at the simple price of doing the same for him. 

They make it sound so easy, the voices in your head. 

Communication is key, they tell you. 

Tell him now. You’ll avoid future pain.

There’s a later. But not for these feelings. Not for these words.

But you want to know for sure that’ll you’ll be seeing his smile aimed at you tomorrow and every day after that-

“Marco.” You choke out. Your throat burns. He doesn’t deserve you, so tell him. Tell him right now or so help me-

“Jean? Are you okay-”

“You know, don’t you?” Brown eyes hide under sloping eyebrows as he frowns. But you keep going. “You asked me plenty of times but I played it off. Both of us did. But mostly me.” The sweat forming on your brow doesn’t make this any easier. (Nobody said it was easy)

You gaze into his concerned eyes. Will the glint in them change once he knows? Will they avoid yours?You choose to avoid his as the stinging sensation becomes overwhelming. 

Distantly you recall the moment you first felt some sense of attraction towards him: that one party when you both played spin the bottle with a bunch of other guys. 

You had desperately hoped it would land on him. You even cheated. And you kissed him (for like a second). But nothing more. Never more. 

You were doomed since that day and have been for every moment before.

Only for a second do your eyes flash back to him but they return to the floor as your chest swells painfully, surges of fear shoving your words down your throat as you stand there by him at the vending machine. To think that you’re a romantic at heart and you chose such a shitty setting. 

You’re heart beats so quickly it hurts like it has been for the past minute or so and you’ve been clenching your sleeves with a vice like grip and you didn’t notice until now. Now.

“I-I like you Marco.” 

Your voice breaks halfway through your second word. 

“Since last October.” he won’t mistake your meaning this way.

No going back at all. Now there’s just this... pause, as you wait for him to reply. Not like you’d be able to do anything else at this point.

“Uhm,” you hear him lick his lips. “You know... I’m straight... right?”

No. It’s only been hammered into you for the entirety of the past fucking year.

“’s kinda hard not to guess that when I walked in on you with that girl last week.” you tell him, bitterness seeping into your words.

He sounds desperate which is a little ironic when you’re the one having his heart broken. “You’re my friend, Jean. I respect your... Sexuality but I don’t like you that way.”

 

And that’s that. 

 

It isn’t as bad as you first thought, that's what you tell yourself. 

A few days after your confession, you still want to avoid him because the way he looks at you has changed, the way he’s now overly aware of body contact between the two of you: it burns. 

But he’s still talking to you. He’s still saying things like “We should go on a roadtrip once college is finished.” He wants you around, somehow, and that’s a good thing. You value your friendship more than anything, and now there are no lies.

It gets better. 

One night when you’re out getting another tub of ice cream that you plan to settle in front of your balls as you sit and watch sad movies on repeat in your dinky little dorm room, you see him at the store. He’s with a girl. The same one from a couple of weeks ago. 

It hurts to see him with someone else and you mentally lash out and throw a tantrum in your mind, and watching him wave at you with a guilty smile doesn’t do wonders for your mood, in fact it’s the sheer opposite. You still need time to be sad, and that’s okay. Feelings are hard to lessen, almost impossible to get rid of, fact is is that you still never got over those few crushes you had in high school even though they were all absolute dicks to you.

Eventually, you just feel numb when you see him with someone else. You get the odd twang of “they actually might be good together” every now and then, and that’s just how it’s going to be. A friend listens to you about how difficult getting over him is, but you’re not desperate enough to take the weird “spell” they offer that will apparently soothe your heart. It’s already getting there. 

It takes a few months, but eventually you start looking at guys again. Wondering who you might happen to fall for and have crush your heart again-

No, no, not all guys will do that. And it could’ve been worse...

“Hey Jean,” Marco sidles up beside you at the cafeteria table. Your eyes have found someone that they don’t seem to want to tear away from. “Why are you staring at Eren?”

You splutter, because hell no that did not just happen, but then Eren smiles in your direction with green eyes creased at the sides and your heart plummets.

“Shit.”

“You gonna go talk to him?”

“Why would I do that?!” You screech in a whisper. 

Marco rolls his eyes, patting your shoulder. “Oh, well, I don’t know, maybe so you can ask him out? I heard he bats for your team.” he offers you a thumbs up and you glance at him. 

You still know that he’s... Attractive. But you don’t think about Marco nearly as much as you used to. Not obsessively like when you had a crush on him. From the outside it seems unhealthy to think about someone that much, but when you like someone, it’s just what happens... It’s happening again, god dammit. 

Due to your history with Eren, you play around with the idea of you and him together for a couple of days until you finally get the guts to talk to him in Biology. Or, well, you kick his seat to get his attention. Hey, the “pulling the pigtails in the playground” trick works pretty well for you. He turns to you with a scowl and a moody “stop doing that”.

“Hey, you busy later on today?” Marco pauses in his writing beside you, but your attention’s turned to Eren. 

He turns around fully in his chair, cautiously eyeing you and glancing away as though the air will have answers. “...Why?”

“Do want to go out with me? We could get coffee.” Your cheeks flush, but hey, maybe you’ll look cuter.

The eyebrows on Eren’s face go up and his cheeks mimic yours. “Really? I mean, I um, I don’t drink coffee, but we could do something? Um.” The way he darts his head around in a fluster, man, it’s adorable. “How’s about we go some place to eat after class?”

You try and suppress a grin, folding your arms in front of you and hiding your red face in your sleeves. “Awesome.” and you wink at him, just because. It works a treat; Eren turns away and covers his face with his hands. 

Marco clears his throat beside you and you turn to him with a raised eyebrow, only to find him covering his mouth with one hand as the other crosses his chest. “That was so cute.” he whispers. “You’re marrying him and I’m going to be the best man at your wedding. That’s it, that’s final.”

You dive back into your sleeves and your grin widens when you hear Eren whispering to Armin in the seat next to him about what he should talk to you about on your date. 

You’ll tell Marco how it goes, because you know he’ll ask about it and get as giddy as you and let you blab to him about all the things you’ll learn to love about Eren, like the true friend he is. 

Your love for him is stronger than the urge to kiss him once was.

**Author's Note:**

> Edit:
> 
> MON DIEU DID I DO SOMETHING WRONG?? Don't mean to sound bigheaded but normally my works get more views than this? Was I trying too hard...


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